Swann stood at the back fence in the laneway and waited for the old man cradling his rifle to move from the sleep-out windows. Gerry had warned Swann about the old boy, indicating that his eyes weren’t good but his hearing was acute. Several times over the past years a gunshot had rung out. None of the neighbours called it in – they didn’t want Tom Pickett institutionalised. Swann saw Pickett’s shadow retreat into the house and vaulted the fence. Took out his pistol and turned the safety off. Des Foley was a hothead, and Swann wasn’t going to be slow on the draw if the escapee started firing. Cop thinking – in the back of his mind the understanding that if he took down Foley and gave him to Accardi, the young detective would be set for life – above recrimination. Likewise, if he gave Foley to Hogan – the slate might be cleared.
The moonlight cold on his forearms, as he crouched in the dirt and wild oats at the rear of the house, hidden from the old man above. He sniffed the air but there were no cooking smells coming from under the house, or conversation. Too early for them to be asleep. Here goes nothing. Swann waited until the shuffling above him died away, then rapped on the weatherboards twice – hard and loud. Then waited. Rapped twice again. Waited. Repeated.
He heard the boards lift away and Blake Tracker’s hopeful face appeared, dissolving instantly into hatred. He saw Blake signal behind, began to whisper to him, the message from his father, keeping his voice calm and clear. Did he remember Swann?
Blake’s eyes focused hard on Swann’s moonlit face. ‘The guy who drove the EK Holden? Diff troubles?’
Swann nodded. Blake withdrew into the darkness and motioned for Swann to follow. He crawled on his hands and knees along a trench dug into the chalky limestone and sand, came to a dugout, still in darkness. Torchlight in his face, Des Foley behind it, horror-show shadows, Browning pistol. Swann saw the look of recognition come into Foley’s slit eyes, his mouth tightening, laying down the pistol and reaching for a filleting knife at his side, shifting his weight.
Swann began to speak, quietly without pause, never taking his eyes off Foley’s knife hand. Foley was shirtless, blood dripping in a lace across his chest. Blake had been giving Foley a tattoo, cutting incisions with the knife, pressing ink from a Bic pen into the stripes now welts – the fist-sized outline of a kelpie’s head carved across Foley’s breast. Foley’s other prison tattoos were confined to his torso and upper arms, knowing at an early age what his fate was going to be, not wanting anything visible and identifiable.
Foley listened while Swann passed on Gerry’s message. What Gerry wanted, for Blake. Careful not to pressure Foley. The tattooing a sign of intimacy that Swann was wary of – Foley the mentor, might want to demonstrate to Blake how to handle an ex-cop when your back’s against the wall. Swann’s gun was returned to its holster. He finished the message, and waited, looked around the dugout. Neat and ordered, like a prison cell; everything packed away, but to hand.
Foley shifted his weight, a small gesture that relieved a lot of tension. His eyes still burned in the torchlight, his face a mask of shadow. Made a little mouth towards the kerosene lantern, Blake Tracker nodding, then kneeling and lighting a match and turning the wick until a glow filled the dugout. Sat back against the wall and waited – his fate still in other hands.
Foley turned off the torch, sat forward on his bucket, ready to parlay. Agreed that Blake should go with Swann. Told him of their plans to return the gun. Showed Swann the cash to accompany the weapon, and sweeten its return. Asked Blake to tell Swann about the guards, flapped his wrist to hand over the conversation.
Blake Tracker spoke quietly. Swann watched the kid’s glances towards Des Foley, who nodded for him to continue. Swann didn’t know how far back Gerry Tracker’s relationship went with Foley, but it had to be significant. Blake shared his revelations about guards standing over him, demanding that he coerce Gerry into smuggling. Foley was right – they’d want significant money before they’d forgive Blake’s escape.
The kid too proud to ask his father for help, or more likely didn’t want him to get in trouble again. Time would tell. Swann interrupted – ‘Gerry … your dad, he mentioned that the policemen who arrested him were going on about a car. Not the gun, but a car. What do you know about that?’
Blake’s face folded. Hands searched for each other. Sucked in a breath.
‘Blake? Tell the man. He’s gonna help.’
Blake Tracker hung his head, closed his eyes. He’d seen a lot, but whatever it was, he’d locked it away deep. Looked into the shadows, where they couldn’t see his face, little shake of the head.
Swann tied a different tack. ‘The detective who chased you. Who you took the gun from. Can you remember his name?’
Little nod of the head. A gruff whisper. ‘Never forget ’im. Detective Sergeant Carter.’
‘Faark.’
Swann looked to Foley. ‘You know him too, eh?’
Foley sniffed, spat. ‘I know the prick. Served on your watch, dinnie? Back when you were at Central.’
‘I was uniform, he was CIB. One of Don Casey’s bagmen. Armed Rob squad. No wonder you know him.’
‘The very man. When he was in Armed Rob he invited me to work for him. Fuck that, I told him. Then it was game on.’
Swann and Foley understood at the same moment, looked to Blake, still looking away, shoulders small. Swann spoke first. ‘Blake. Whose car did you steal?’
The kid shrugged. Swann continued. ‘Where did you steal it? You remember?’
Foley grunted. ‘And what was fucken in it?’
The kid roused himself, eyebrows raised, fists clenched. ‘They was in the boot. An old couple, naked, tied back to back. Their faces was all purple and blue. They both dead.’
‘You know who they were?’ Foley asked.
‘Knew later. Was in the paper. Missing couple. Could never say the name. Gr-somethin’.’
Swann filled in the rest. ‘The Grednics. Marko and Agata. Marko Grednic was Conlan’s accountant. Director on one of his property development ventures. Wanted last year for questioning by the Costigan Royal Commission, some line of inquiry about corporate tax evasion. Never made it to the stand.’
‘Fucken hell, Blakey. Wrong car to nick. Where’d you get it?’
‘Was a Merc. Never driven a Merc. Saw it parked over there in East Perth, near the cricket ground. Parked on a hill. I was walkin’ up from behind it, saw the keys sittin’ there on the back tyre. So I got in. Didn’t even start the thing. Just sittin’ there when I hear the siren – right bloody behind me. So I cranked her up and went for a tear. Over the Causeway, down Canning Highway, onto the freeway, this fucken Belmont on my arse, couldn’t shake it. I just wanted to get near home, peg it on foot. But the thing had no grunt, slippin’ clutch or somethin’. So I get near home and tried to lose the copper with a bush bash, cut into the swamp near home, lost it on a turn and pranged into a tree. That’s when the fucken boot popped open. And the copper was right there, drawn ’is gun and everythin’.’
‘The copper. Carter – he wasn’t gonna take Blakey in. He was gonna shoot him down,’ Foley added.
‘I can see why. Case of bad timing, Blake. Carter knocks off shift, goes to where he or someone’s parked the car for him. His usual job – tie up a loose end. He would’ve killed the Grednics, or been there when it was done. His next job to get rid of them. So he draws on you, you get the gun off him. Why’d you take off again in the Merc?’
‘The Belmont was parked some ways off, still runnin’. Didn’t know if that D was alone. So I got the Merc going again, backed her up, the boot still flappin’ open and closed. I know all those tracks, by heart. Normally I’d burn the car, but I couldn’t – just couldn’t – not with them in it.’
‘What did you do with the Mercedes, Blake?’
Blake looked at Swann. His forehead beaded with sweat. The thing that he’d never told anyone else. Not his father, not his legal-aid lawyer, not his cellmates. ‘I didn’t go far. Didn’t know how many coppers would be out there, lookin’ for me. I closed the boot, drove it to Bibra Lake – there’s a jetty there. Deep water. Just buckled up and drove it off the end. Got the belt off as it sank, and swam away.’
‘That’s a loose end, right there,’ Foley murmured. ‘That Carter’s just a bonehead, but Ben Hogan. He wouldn’t like that. Loose end could unstitch the whole plan.’
Swann didn’t reply. Foley was right. The question was why the car theft hadn’t come up before. The Tracker kid had been accessible, in custody. Why were they looking for the car now?
‘Blake, this is important. Was there anything else in the boot, apart from the bodies?’
Blake nodded. ‘Loads of stuff. That was a big boot. Bags. A suitcase. Some cardboard boxes.’
Foley patted Blake Tracker on the shoulder; the kid looked spent. It was time to get him home. Swann turned his attention to Foley, not knowing his plans, not knowing if he’d ever see him again. ‘Tell me about Mostel. Why you’ve been following him. It doesn’t make sense.’
Foley shrugged. ‘Sure, while we’re getting on. Sure. But first, why you wanna know? And Blakey – do us a favour mate and go and wait outside. This is yours.’ Foley passed Blake Tracker a sleeping bag. No goodbyes. To Swann he passed the sergeant’s revolver, showed him the chamber, loaded with two.
When Blake Tracker climbed through the weatherboards, Swann lit a cigarette and offered one to Foley, who shook his head. Old man Pickett shuffled along the corridor above them, the boards creaking. ‘He guarding you?’
Foley shook his head. ‘Think he’s still guarding his mates, some Kokoda rathole. You get used to it. Not so different being inside, listening to blokes shoutin’ and wailin’ all night long.’
Foley’s face was lit with a reddish glow. If he was nervous that Swann might draw on him, or disclose his hide-out, it didn’t show. Eyes patient, observant and faintly amused – two grown men in a hole underneath the house of a war-haunted veteran.
As though reading his mind, Foley said, ‘Funny, isn’t it? Few years ago, we would’ve shot each other dead, soon as blink. How’d a bloke like you end up being a copper anyway? I didn’t know Gerry had copper mates, though it doesn’t surprise me. Sociable fella. He’d never give me up though, for any money. A proper mate.’
Foley didn’t need to ask him – the question was implicit in his last statement. What kind of man was Swann? The kind to shop Australia’s most wanted, or be worthy of the trust of a mutual friend?’
To put him at ease, Swann told Foley the condensed story of how he met Marion, a detective’s daughter, how at the time he could’ve gone either way. Swann guessed that Blake Tracker wasn’t one for conversation, because Foley was eager, kept prodding the story along. Swann reached the point, exhaustion weighing him down. Returned to Mostel, and Foley’s motives. By way of an answer, Foley took out a small leather satchel, showed Swann the false passports, the US currency, the US treasury bonds.
‘Bloke reckons he’s a bit of a player, doesn’t he?’
Foley’s interest in Mostel was purely personal. Mostel’s response, putting money on the street – an idiot move. Big tickets on himself, trying to build a reputation. Most of Perth’s gangsters were trying to move out of drugs and gambling into corporate crime, where the real money was. Mostel moving the other way. Swann described his own interest in the man, how he fit in with the premier’s new direction. Foley nodded, took it in, prodded the dried blood on his chest, admired his new tattoo, cracked his neck. There was no need to spell it out. Common enemies make for strange alliances. They could help one another. Foley grinned. ‘Well, you know where to find me. I haven’t worked out how, but I’m gonna take that fucker down.’
A handshake, and Swann stood, crouched over, moved towards the darkness at the edge of the house.